Flight of the Passing Fancy
by RiggyRuggy
Summary: AU fic- Set in 1924, Stan befriends a janitor at work and ends up in a gang-run-and-owned speakeasy where he meets a rent boy in drag whom he fancies quite a bit. M for drinking, drugs, prostitution and gang violence!


Stan isn't the one who decided to go here. In fact, if it were up to him, he'd be home, kicking his feet up and trying to get some sleep after a hard day's work. He isn't sure how exactly he got himself into a situation like this, because he's always been a mindful man, careful to follow the rules and be polite. He's never broken any laws before today, and it puts him on edge to walk into the large industrial building after work hours. He only wanted to make friends, not break the law. Ahead of him, the blond, whose name is Kenny, turned and grinned. "The word's Peacock. You gotta keep that in mind, okay?" Stan nods as if he knows what this means.

Inside, things appear quiet. There's a low hum coming from below, and Stan takes it to be a generator. Kenny pulls him through the empty space to a dark stairwell and, grinning like a madman, he pushes Stan straight forward. Stan catches himself on the first landing, but not without making a bit of a scene. Not that anyone was around _to _see. Besides Kenny, who simply snorted from somewhere in the stairwell, closing the door tightly. Stan's eyes took a while to adjust to the sudden darkness, but Kenny seemed to know exactly what to do. He slipped past him and whistled before leading him down a few more steps.

"Kenny, it says 'Staff Only'..." He mumbled, narrowing his eyes to read the smaller print.

Kenny, from the final landing, laughed. "I know how to read," He said, though a few times Stan had wondered about this.

The blond was a janitor, not exactly who Stan had in mind for a work pal. When he began job-searching in the city, something he'd been looking forward to since he was thirteen, he decided that his primary strategy would be to befriend the first person he met, and work his way up by making friends. As it turns out, nobody in the 92AF Station wanted to be friends. The funny, cheery radio host, Mike McKnight, whom he used to listen to while he cleaned his flat, was not nearly as friendly in person, and the three women who sang his introduction had no interest in 'hello's and 'how do you do's. The most Stan had said to one of them was "No, ma'am" when she asked if he had a light. He also didn't get pulled into the recording room to deliver news, like he sometimes heard happen. As it turns out, Ricky, who could be heard stomping up the steps and then rushing in panting and blabbering about 'Breaking News' was a man they hired to sit inside the booth the entire time. He didn't run up any stairs, they just had him stomp on a piece of hard floor and then slam the door. Stan found this irritating and a bit heartbreaking; he'd so been looking forward to having that opportunity. But the fact of the matter was that he worked on the first floor, answering phone calls and delivering papers, files and mail upstairs to yet another receptionist who then gave it to an assistant who delivered half to Mike and the rest to the trash can.

Kenny was the first person to listen to more than a few words out of Stan's mouth that weren't work-related, and he seemed nice enough. Figuring he was just going to have to start below him to be able to befriend anyone higher, Stan agreed to go out on Friday night, when he didn't have work the next morning. Kenny said they were visiting his favorite joint, but because they lived in the poorer part of Denver, Stan figured they'd be dining at a small restaurant nearby that had a live band and cigars for cheaper than the average shop in town, but as far as he knew, it wasn't doing so well and when he walked by he noticed that the sign was falling apart a bit. Whatever this place was, it wasn't nearly as lively. In fact, Stan was almost sure he could feel rats running over his toes as he followed Kenny, both hands braced on the wall so he didn't fall.

Suddenly the blond turned, grabbing Stan by his sleeve. "Peacock" he repeated, before turning to a large metal door beside another one. One read 'WARNING: Employees Only' and the other had the letters wearing away. It was hard to make out, and by the time he picked out an 'E' from the fading paint, he was greeted with it swinging open in his face.

It was certainly no Kenny, but rather a large man with no hair and a nasty scar across his left cheek. "Well?"

"Ah- excuse me, did my friend come- " He was cut off with a large hand finding his neck, and almost immediately he was in the air, eyes going wide in surprise. "Wait! Wait! Hold on, I'm with- no, wait! My friend, he said- Um. Peacock?! Peacock! Peacock!"

The man hesitated before dropping him, looking at him rather suspiciously. "You here with Kenny?"

"Yessir!"

He eyed Stan up and down before stepping aside and pushing him through a narrow hall. Stan ran into yet another door, and from here, he began to feel the floor buzzing, a muffled sound coming from the other side. When he pushed it open, he had to stop, breath nearly stopped.

The first thing that he noticed was the bar. He'd never seen one used for what their actual purpose was, let alone had a drink himself. It was all outlawed by the time he had come of-age. Besides that, there were the men there, all dressed to the nines in slim suites and shined shoes. The girls wore dresses finer than anyone he had met, their hair all styled neatly, fine jewelry accenting their expensive look. On a small rounded stage stood a young woman in a beaded dress, her voice echoed nicely through her mic, and a small ensemble played behind her.

"You've never been to a place like this, huh?"

Stan looked in the direction of the small voice, and found a short girl with a blond bob and a beaded cap that stopped nearly right where her hair did. It hugged her round face nicely, and Stan found himself staring openly, catching himself only when she giggled and turned to a familiar face.

"I told you peacock," Kenny said, clearly having heard the fiasco earlier.

Stan laughed it off, trying to get a better look at the bar. "Is that- they're serving-..?"

"Yes sir-ee" Kenny grinned, hugging an arm around the small girl. "Set up a tab, s'long as you pay it later, they got no trouble serving you."

"Oh, No, I don't drink," Stan said, hand rising to his hair to fix it, flatten it down a bit. It was a nervous habit he'd never dropped. "It's not… Kenny, that's illegal."

Kenny gave him a strange smile and brought him to a table. The blond girl sat only long enough to introduce herself and exchange polite small talk with Stan, her hands crossed on the table top. After a few moments, she excused herself and promised to be back soon.

Stan felt uncomfortable, especially without the bubbly lady to keep conversation going. Kenny was talkative here, but not nearly as friendly as she had been. He wasn't necessarily rude either, but Stan felt like he must think him a child for not drinking with him. Kenny finally sighed, leaning forward across the table, his greasy hair falling into his face, making him look much more like a janitor and less like the men who came here. "If I pay the goddamn ticket, will you take a sip with me or what?"

To this Stan sputtered, trying to excuse himself, trying to tell him that it was okay, he had money, but the words came out sounding more like "Fine, then." So Kenny pulled him up by the arm.

Before he realized it, Stan found himself seated at the bar, clinking glasses with Kenny and asking about this girl, Buttercup. Normally Stan would wrinkle his nose at such a name, but even a small bit of alcohol was making him feel nicer than before, more open-minded. By the time the band took a break, and the young woman in the beads took a bow before slipping behind a bright red curtain, Stan was feeling slightly dizzy. He'd swallowed down all he had in his wallet, and was now in the process of making himself a tab. He bought himself a much-needed smoke, in commemoration of the credit system, and took it into the stairwell, smiling at the large man on his way out. He walked up the steps, which seemed to be fewer and less steep than before, and out to the back of the building, lighting a cigarette as he pushed the door open with his hip. He had a habit of doing smoking on his own; it was a form of meditation, in a sense.

Stepping out into the dark, he found it was far later than he'd thought. He found himself whistling the tune he'd last heard the woman- Millie they said her name was?- singing. From a few feet away, he heard a shoe scuff the gravel and his final note fell flat before stopping completely. "Hello?"

"That's my favorite song she sings," To his right stood a woman, her heeled shoes kicking back and forth at the rocks. She glanced at Stan, whose hand pat down his hair again, and stepped a bit closer. "What's it called- something I love you? I'm telling you..-?"

"I'm Confessing," Stan smiled, "That I love you."

She returned it, though it seemed a bit condescending, he was sweating inside his work shit already. He didn't have much experience with women, certainly not ones like her. She wore a lot of makeup- it coated her eyelids so thickly she wondered if it weighed them down, or if she just narrowed them. Her hair was a deep red shade he'd never seen before, and so soft and natural looking. He wanted to reach out and tug on it. A tan cloak was draped around her shoulders, though she was clearly dressed well beneath it. A shimmering dress in pale gold hung to her knees, a matching headband around her forehead. She put her hand out, palm down. Stan took it as an invitation and kissed her knuckles, pulling back to smile goofily. "Stan Marsh." He said, introducing himself with a tone much greater than he deserved. He was just an errand boy.

She snorted a laugh, pulling her hand back and holding it over her chest. "Charmed. Have you been here before?"

"No, Ma'am."

"You weren't leaving, were you?"

"Oh, uh, no! I was just-"

She stopped him, flicking the end of her quellazaire. "Well, aren't you a doll," She smiled, and again it seemed almost deceiving, the way she leaned forward and dropped her eyelids just slightly, only one side of her mouth pulling up. "Stumbling over your words like that."

"Sorry, Miss- ah.. What did you say your name was?"

She paused, as if she had to consider this, her tongue darting out to lick over her heavily made-up lips. Her lipstick was bright red- he could tell even in the dark. "Kyle." She said, "You can call me May, too, but I'm Kyle."


End file.
